


Coming Home Isn’t What It Used To Be

by mirajanihiggins



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angry John, Angst with a Happy Ending, Confrontation, Humor, M/M, Plotting Sherlock, john returns home, punching walls, soft john, soft sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-11-07 01:05:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11048085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirajanihiggins/pseuds/mirajanihiggins
Summary: John's come home to 221B at last. Sherlock expects everything to go back to the way it was. After all they've been through, is this even a possibility? Or will their relationship be changed forever?





	Coming Home Isn’t What It Used To Be

Sherlock’s feet barely touched the treads as he all but skipped up the stairs of 221B Baker Street. His heart was the lightest it had been in years, his head filled with joyous scenarios, a smile wreathing his full lips.

 

John had come home. Finally.

 

Behind him trudged Dr. John Hamish Watson, head down in thought, his footfalls heavy due to the weight in his heart and the heft of his fully-stuffed duffel bag. His mind was a maelstrom of thoughts, full of all the twists, turns, and machinations that had lead to this moment, and many of them still troubled him. The loss of the marriage he thought would make his life complete— _normal_ —but which had resulted, instead, in the death of his deceitful, deadly, working-for-Moriarty wife and the near-murder of his best friend, the man who had nearly given up _everything_ , including his hard-won career, for his safety and well-being.  His head was clanging like a line of old pots and pans hanging in the wind. He couldn’t seem to think clearly.

 

Unlike Sherlock, John was of two minds about returning to 221B. On the one hand, he was pleased—so _very_ pleased—to be coming back to his old rooms and his former way of life, the one he had found so fulfilling. _But_ …on the other hand, when he thought about all that had transpired on the road from there to here, he questioned himself, his situation, his relationships…hell, _everything_.

 

After all that had happened between them, could he and Sherlock go back to the way things were before St. Barts? Does he even _want_ them to return there? Maybe they would have to find a new way of being, a new normal, better suited to the people they’ve _become_ rather than the people they _were_.

 

“Come along, John! You’d think you were going to your death rather than back to your old room!” Sherlock fairly chirped at him. John laughed quietly to himself. How unlike Sherlock. He had expected him to be somewhat pleased that he would have company once again (it was _never_ about splitting the rent—that had been a right load of shite from the start), but Sherlock was positively _glowing_. It actually warmed John’s heart a little that he had been missed so ardently.

 

“I’m coming, Sherlock. I didn’t hear you volunteer to carry my bag up the stairs, as I recall,” he quipped back.

 

Sherlock cast a sunny glance over his shoulder. “Why should I? You gained entirely too much weight eating the wrong kind of food. Once you’re settled, we should send out for some curry. Then, tomorrow, maybe we can go shopping at Tesco’s. You can pick up whatever you like.” He was practically dancing down the hallway to the double doors of the flat and the flight of stairs that led up to John’s bedroom. He stopped and pirouetted to face his flatmate, gesturing to the stairs with a slight bow. “I assume you want to put your things in your room first. Be my guest.” He giggled, as if at a little joke.

 

John shook his head in disbelief. This was _not_ the same Sherlock who left for Eastern Europe years ago. “Sure. Sounds like a good idea. I guess the Indian place is still open? It was always teetering on the edge of bankruptcy, as I recall.”

 

Sherlock nodded gleefully. “Still there. They’re doing much better these days. They suffered a bit during that time when all the cats were disappearing. Imagine, people thinking the restaurants were serving kitty instead of curry!” He laughed easily, which caused a stirring in John’s chest that was, at once, thrilling and discomfiting.

 

Setting his hand on the worn but sweetly familiar newel post at the foot of the banister, John slogged up the flight of stairs to the turnaround, then disappeared upstairs. Sherlock stood, unmoving, his eyes never turning away from where they had followed John upstairs. He waited, chewing on the inside of his lower lip, until…

 

“JESUS FUCKING CHRIST! WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO TO MY ROOM? IT STINKS TO HIGH HEAVEN IN HERE! WHEN DID YOU TURN IT INTO A GOD-DAMNED LAB?!”

 

The wolfish grin on Sherlock’s face would have clued John in that there had been a setup, had he been there to see it. Yes, the plan was going quite well so far, in Sherlock’s estimation. After he had returned from his mission and found John living with Mary, he had reluctantly turned John’s old room into a temporary lab. Not that he got to use it much; Mary’s bullet had seen to that. Then all that business with closing down Moriarty’s network for good and getting John out of Mary’s clutches safely…well, again, not much time for experiments.

 

For several days before John was due to arrive, however, Sherlock had performed every experiment he could devise that would stink like rotten eggs, and worse, and had shuttered and taped all the doors and windows closed for maximum effect. Now the swallows were returning to Capistrano, as it were. He would see if all his work would yield the desired results.

 

John stumbled down the stairs, practically retching. He threw open the window on the landing, stuck his head out, and breathed in the cool, crisp air outside.

 

“Sorry about that, John. I didn’t get to properly clean up your room, I’ve been so busy lately,” he mock-sympathized with his nauseous flatmate. He made a pretense of thinking, then exclaimed, “Why don’t you sleep down here tonight, while your room is airing out?”

 

His body half out the window, it was hard to hear John’s response.

 

“What was that, John?”

 

John pulled his head back in and swallowed his stomach back down before speaking. “I said, that is one of your better ideas. God! What were you doing in there? Feeding limburger cheese to a skunk to see if you could create a new kind of stench?” He half-closed the window, then started descending the stairs unsteadily. “I’m not sure I still _have_ an appetite after that. Still,” he shrugged, “I guess it was better done up there than in the kitchen. _That_ would have been intolerable.” He came to a halt a couple of steps above the main landing, looking down at Sherlock with an indecipherable expression on his face.

 

Keeping his own face carefully neutral was difficult. Sherlock was buoyed by the knowledge that his plan was proceeding apace. He had already gotten John out of the upstairs room. Now…

 

“So, I guess I could sleep on the couch, eh? I’ll have to use some of your blankets, since the ones in my room need a good deodorizing,” John opined.

 

Sherlock’s eyes widened in alarm. No _! No-no-no-no-no-no,that would not do at all! Modify the plan._ “Uh, no, John. I don’t think you’d want to do that. Not a good idea at all.”

 

One blond eyebrow rose in skepticism. “And why would _that_ be, Sherlock?”

 

_Think fast._ “Well, a recent client I had, he had brought his dogs with him. They were dirty, and they left the couch smelling of wet dog hair. They might have even had _fleas_ , for all I know. No, better you sleep someplace… _else_. More conducive to rest.” He shrugged in his best “who, me?” demeanor, the one John could see through in a heartbeat.

 

“Uh huh,” John remarked, drily, that one eyebrow still hovering near his hairline. “And where would you _suggest_ I sleep, Concierge?”

 

“Well, you could easily sleep in _my_ room tonight,” Sherlock observed, lightly. He cocked his head innocently to one side and continued, “I mean, there’s plenty of room…”

 

“In your room,” John stated flatly.

 

“Yes.” Rocking on his heels.

 

“In your bed.” 

 

“Yes.”

 

“With you.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Who sleeps _naked_.”

 

“Well, yes.” Perplexed. “Is that a problem?”

 

Starting to get suspicious. “Sherlock…”

 

“Oh, John, come on. You wear pyjamas to bed. That should provide plenty of buffer. And, besides that, my bed is quite large, and very comfortable, I might add.” He sniffed in disapproval. “At least, you won’t smell like a wet Afghan Hound in the morning.”

 

John descended one step, still a step or two higher than Sherlock. His look was guarded and tending toward angry. “Sherlock…”

 

Sherlock spread his hands. “What?” He feigned ignorance, badly.

 

“What are you up to?” John asked, giving Sherlock the fish eye. _Two_ fish eyes, actually.

 

“John…”

 

“ANSWER THE GODDAMNED QUESTION!” he roared.

 

Sherlock flinched. John leaned in without descending further and fixed his eyes on his flatmate’s. Sherlock’s wavered, then dropped. He pressed his lips together nervously.

 

“Okay. Now…why are you so determined that I should sleep in your room, _William_?” John’s voice dripped acid.

 

Sherlock’s eyes snapped up and his mouth dropped open. “Don’t call me…”

 

John shook a damning finger in his face. “When you act like a child, I’m going to treat you like one. Now, what is this all about…”

 

Whispered. “Don’t…”

 

“ _William_?”

 

Sherlock screwed up his face in disgust. “That is _not_ my name, John.”

 

John leaned back and crossed his arms aggressively. “That’s what I’m going to call you until you tell me…”

 

Both hands went up in surrender. “All right, all right!” He sighed in resignation. “I just wanted to…make sure  you…” Pale eyes were awkwardly cast to the floor and the normally-robust voice softened until it was nearly inaudible, “…wouldn’t leave again.”

 

Now _that_ was not what John had expected. Sherlock’s motives could be inscrutable at times and positively obscure at others, but John hadn’t even _considered_ this. He had thought that, maybe, this had been a little bit of payback for leaving, a touch of spite, maybe even just a bad prank. But _this_ …

 

“What…why would you do this? How would this keep me…”

 

Sherlock raised his eyes to meet John’s, and there were tears in them. Unshed, certainly, but still there, making his pale eyes look like the shimmering surface of a summer lake. He looked…desperate.

 

“I can be what you want, John. Just tell me…tell me what you want of me,” he pleaded. “Just…stay this time. Please. _Stay with me_.”

 

The change in his demeanor was sudden and drastic. It was as though someone had pulled the plug on a tub of water and everything had just drained out of him, simply by forcing him to admit his true motives, for once. The joyful reception had been real, but it had masked something darker and closer to home.

 

John was taken aback by this sudden reversal. “Sherlock, I just came back. I have no intention of leaving.” He spoke softly, awkwardly, afraid that a single harsh word might cause those barely-restrained tears to fall.

 

Sherlock turned his head aside, as if ashamed of his sudden display of vulnerability. There was a catch in his voice as he explained. “I had thought that once before, John. I had believed that I would return from Serbia and everything would be the same, that I would just walk back into Baker Street and you would be here, sitting in your chair, reading your paper, and you would look up and say, ‘Good to have you back, Sherlock. Let’s go solve some cases.’”

 

He angrily wiped at one eye with the back of his hand. “Instead, I walked in on your proposal dinner, at which time you assaulted me--not once, not twice, but _three times--_ and then walked away with _her_.” He almost spat the word. “You got married and I…I couldn’t take it, John. I had spent so much time alone, dismantling Moriarty’s network. All I had were hopes and memories, John. After I came back, all I had left were memories. The hopes were gone. _You_ were gone.” His lips quivered as he blinked back tears before taking a deep, steadying breath.

 

“I’m here now,” John said in his quietest, most soothing voice.

 

“For how long?” Sherlock snapped, wiping away a rebellious tear. “I know you don’t want me, so I thought…”

 

John almost fell up the stair behind him in surprise. “ _What_?  Sherlock, what the hell are you saying?”

 

Sherlock shook his head dismissively, one hand cutting the air like an axe. “I’ve seen what you like, John, and I’m not it.” Before John could open his mouth to speak, Sherlock cut him off. “Major Sholto. _That’s_ what you like, isn’t it, John? I saw you bouncing around him at the reception like an eager puppy. You’ve always said, _‘I’m not gay_ ’,” mocking John’s tone of voice, “whenever someone would imply that you and I were a couple. I finally figured out at the reception that it wasn’t _men_ you had a problem with, it was _me in particular._ I wasn’t what you wanted.”

 

The pain in Sherlock’s voice and the misery etched into his face cut John deeply. He closed his eyes against the sight but couldn’t escape the razor-sharp edge to that normally beautiful baritone.

 

“I decided, right then and there, before I went out and _drugged myself out of my mind_ , that, if I ever got the chance again, I would do whatever I had to do so that you would stay. And I will. I will, John. Just tell me what you want me to be.”

 

John buried his face in his hands and stood, silently, on the stair. He had never wanted things to go this way. Maybe he had been hoping, too—hoping that they could just fall back naturally into their old life. But that wasn’t possible anymore. Too much had changed between them. That flat, lifeless voice—that wasn’t _his_ Sherlock. He wasn’t sure who that was anymore.

 

“Look, Sherlock, you know I’m shite at this sort of thing but, I…I have something important that I need to tell you.”

 

Sherlock nodded solemnly, his face a mask of infinite sadness. “I have something I need to tell you, too.”

 

John’s mouth pulled into a flat line as he considered his course of action. “Right. Well, how about this…I know it’s silly, but it might make us both feel a little less self-conscious.  On the count of three, we’ll both say what we want to say, okay?”

 

Sherlock silently nodded.

 

“Okay, then, on the count of three. One…two…” Each of them took a deep breath. “THREE.”

John. “Don’t change for me, Sherlock. You’re fine the way you are.”

Sherlock. “I love you, John. I always have and I always will.”

 

They both stopped, stunned at the realization of what the other had said. John stared at Sherlock in slack-jawed disbelief. Sherlock stared back at John, aghast that he had betrayed himself for nothing.

 

Sherlock stumbled backward toward the kitchen door until his extended right hand impacted the jamb. His other hand, long and delicately-fingered—a musician’s hand—reflexively covered his open mouth. John had seldom seen such raw terror in Sherlock’s eyes before. They stared, unwavering, into John’s own.

 

“Oh, God,” he breathed, still backing up through the door. Tears were sliding down those magnificent cheekbones.  “John. I’m…I’m sorry, I’m so…oh, my God, I’ve ruined everything!” He spun around and fled down the short corridor to his bedroom. John could hear the door slam.

 

John just stood there, lost in the sudden, blinding awareness that _Sherlock loved him_. He could hardly believe it…this gift had just been offered to him by the most exceptional man alive, in John’s estimation. And yet…and yet Sherlock had thought that this gift was _unwelcome_. John felt like kicking himself, over and over again. What had he offered Sherlock in return? _Don’t change_. What kind of insipid, cowardly exchange was that? He should have had the guts to respond in kind.

 

_How can I face enemy soldiers, assassins, and master criminals without flinching, but I can’t tell one man that I love him?_

 

A sharp thud reached John’s ears, jolting him out of his self-deprecating reverie. Another followed it. And another. After a moment’s confusion, John was able to recognize it. _The sound of someone punching a wall_.

 

Oh my God… _Sherlock_!

 

John flew off the steps and raced down the bathroom hall to the closed bedroom door. Once there, he could clearly hear what had, out in the hall, sounded like the screeching of a pterodactyl. “ _Shit! Shit! Fucking idiot! Stupid worthless bastard_!” Each phrase was punctuated by an impact, sometimes resulting in the sound of breaking plaster.

 

John pounded on the door with one hand while he jiggled the locked doorknob with the other. “Sherlock! Sherlock! Open the door!”

 

“No! Go away, John!” **_THUD_**!

 

“Sherlock! Open the fucking door or I will break it down!”

 

**_THUD_**! “ _It’s not your fucking bedroom, John_!” **_THUD_**!

 

John pounded on the door again. “Yes it is, you stupid berk! You stunk mine up, remember? Where am I supposed to sleep tonight?”

 

**_THUD_**! “Why don’t you go sleep with your precious ‘Major Sholto’. It’s what you like!” **_THUD_**! **_CRACK_**! “ _Ow_! _Shit_!”

 

_Oh, Jeez, he’s going to ruin his hands_! Those brilliant, beautiful, graceful hands that could dance over the neck of a violin, eliciting the most heavenly strains…that could handle the most dangerous reagents with a sureness that amazed him…that, John had hoped, would, one day, cradle his face and stroke his hair with tenderness and longing…

 

John backed up and, with a single well-placed kick, shattered the lock and sent the door flying open. He charged inside to find Sherlock standing by the back wall, stunned by John’s sudden appearance. The wall was covered with impact craters, each one painted with varying degrees of bloody spatter. Some of the plaster-and-lathe on the walls was broken, There were even a couple of impacts higher up on the wall, also daubed in blood.

 

John gasped, alarmed by the condition of Sherlock’s hands. The knuckles were bloodied and swollen, the fingers curled inward uselessly. He could only imagine the damage to his wrists as well. Then he looked up and noticed trickles of blood making their way down Sherlock’s face from where he had slammed his face into the wall. His eyes were glazed over as he stood there, seeing but not seeing. John approached him warily, unsure if Sherlock wouldn’t take a swing at _him_ next. When he saw that it was safe, he gingerly cupped the battered hands in his own and brought them up to his lips.

 

Sherlock stirred, his brow furrowed in confusion. “John?” His voice was soft, plaintive. He tried, half-heartedly, to pull his ruined hands away but John wouldn’t let him.

 

“Sherlock,” John responded just as softly. “I said, ‘Don’t change’, and I meant it. I don’t want James anymore. He turned away from me a long time ago. I’m over that. What I want now is _this_. What we have now. I want _you_. I’m the one who should be apologizing to _you_. You laid your heart out for me and I stepped on it.” Tears welled up in John’s eyes and he snuffled. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I’m so, so sorry, and I love you, too. Please, forgive me for being such a stupid, unfeeling arse.”

 

Silent tears cascaded down the sculpted face, puddling in the crease of his plump lips. John, still holding the broken fingers like a wounded bird, raised up on his toes and tenderly pressed his lips against Sherlock’s, tasting salt and blood and an underlying hint of cherry-flavored chapstick. The kiss he received in turn was as honest and as steadfast as any he had ever experienced. As they drew apart, their eyes met—bright blue gazing into quicksilver—and there was no need for further declarations.

 

John then led Sherlock into the bathroom to tend to the damage that had been wrought by too many words unspoken. As the doctor tended to the detective’s wounds, their eyes met again.

 

Sherlock said, “Stay with me. Tonight.”

 

John nodded. “I will. Considering what you did to my room…”

 

Sherlock grinned in spite of himself. “Tomorrow, too?”

 

“Forever, Sherlock. Forever.”


End file.
